


Free To Love

by kuriositet



Series: Free To Love [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: I have a lot of feelings, M/M, angsty, nasir appreciation fic, sad nasir :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriositet/pseuds/kuriositet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of things go through Nasir's mind upon learning of Agron's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free To Love

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the Dead and the Dying, in Nasir's POV. If you haven't seen it yet, don't read this.
> 
> And just so you don't get confused: every other piece is a flashback.
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Yasmin for beta and cheerleading. \o/  
> Any remaining mistakes are my own.

”What of Agron?” Nasir asks, and three faces turn to him, but he cares only for Naevia’s. “Does he share fate with Crixus, or is he yet of this world?” There is no response. There is only silence as Naevia’s face goes from looking void of anything to full of pain.

It is the only answer Nasir needs. It is one he already knew, before even entering the tent where Spartacus and Gannicus had gone to speak with Naevia. Agron is gone from this world. Nasir had let him go.

*

Nasir cannot stop smiling. He pushes up on his elbow to lie on his side, and looks down at Agron beside him. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted as he breathes, still a little heavier than normal, but slowing down now. His skin gleams with sweat in the low lamplight, and Nasir reaches out to trace the pink scar high up on his chest. He shifts around, careful not to pull too much on his still healing wound, and presses his lips to Agron’s skin, still hot as a furnace.

He knows Agron is awake when he lets out a soft sigh and brings one hand up to tangle in Nasir’s hair, giving it just a light tug. Nasir kisses his collarbone, his neck, drags his lips over Agron’s stubbly jawline, and when he reaches his mouth, Agron is waiting for him. He bites Nasir’s lip and Nasir’s toes curl as he presses closer, Agron’s free hand on his hip.

It is odd, Nasir thinks, that he can do this. It is new and alien to him, bringing pleasure to a man and receiving it in turn. It is strange to lie in Agron’s arms afterwards, to be allowed to stay, to feel safe. It is still a new concept to do what he wants and not what his Dominus commands.

Agron rolls them over, careful not to cause further injury to Nasir’s side, and buries his face against Nasir’s neck. The absence of his collar is something he has been growing accustomed to, but there are still nights when he wakes up from dreams where it is still choking him. Agron’s lips remind him where he is, who he is now. A free man.

It is a new feeling, he thinks. Love.

*

Nasir does not know where he is going. He is not sure what he is going to do. He does not know how he gets from the tent where Naevia was, to the other side of the camp. He does not remember going through it, or seeing anyone. Nobody had stopped him, though he is sure someone would have.

Everything is quiet here, like it had been inside the tent. No one is saying a word. The only sound except from that of the distant camp is his own breathing.

He had known, he tells himself. He had known he would not again lay eyes upon Agron, not in this life. Agron had known as well. He had known when he asked Nasir to stay with Spartacus. 

“I ask only that you live.” The words echo in Nasir’s mind. It was not fair. It was not fair of him to ask such a thing when he would not let Nasir ask the same. Nasir should have asked anyway.

*

Nasir does not talk of Syria because he does not remember much. He had been brought to Rome as a small child, the only real memory he has left of any other life is a brother forever gone. He tells Agron about that, about the warm embrace that kept him safe all the way from Damascus to Neapolis where they had finally been separated at the auction block and Nasir had been given a new name; a new life. 

“The only reason I remembered my name is the dreams I had for years, of him screaming it while I was led away.” Agron links their fingers while Nasir tells him of the first villa he served in, kisses the back of his hand as Nasir recounts being sold again to the Dominus Agron and Spartacus had freed him from.

Agron talks much of the lands east of the Rhine, but never the personal things. Nasir thinks at first it is because Agron feels bad for having lived his entire life in freedom and only mere months as a slave when Nasir has known nothing else, but in due time Agron starts to share little stories, and Nasir understands.

It is Duro.

*

Once he is away from the camp, away from watchful eyes and listening ears, he lets it all out. He screams. His hands itch for a spear and he wishes he had taken one with him. He finds an old, dried up branch of a tree and takes that instead and swings it against the rock of the mountain that towers up beside him. Again, and again. He imagines the faces of Romans as he hits the rock, pretends it is the fuck who struck Agron from this world, and those who claimed the lives of everyone else. Camilla, Zia, even fucking Brictius. He can only assume they are all gone.

The wood splinters in his hands and against the rock, and one more strike renders it useless. Nasir is not done, though. Closing his fists around nothing but air he keeps going, ignoring the pain shooting up through his arms.

There is a sudden touch to his shoulders and he spins around automatically and punches Castus square in the jaw, sending him flying to the ground. Nasir laughs as Castus gets back on his feet. This is better. This is great. Everything is Castus’s fault. Everything is Nasir’s fault. Agron would never have left if Castus had not been around.

Castus dodges the second blow easily, as well as the third. Nasir gives up on the punching and tackles him to the ground instead, wrestling him. Nasir’s movements are sloppy, though; his arms heavy after the long match with the mountain wall, and it is not long before Castus is set astride his waist, pinning him down.

“Is this what you wanted?” Nasir asks, fighting against Castus’s grip on his wrists. “You wanted him gone.”

Castus just shakes his head, and for the first time since the fight began, Nasir really looks at him. He is not his usual smug self, with a smirk in his eyes and a wolfish grin upon his lips as he flirts mercilessly with Nasir, who never really saw the point of it. That is not the Castus holding him down, meeting his eyes. 

“I only wished to see you happy.”

*

“You train with the spear now?” Nasir looks up as Crixus and Gannicus joins him and Naevia around the fire, and spots Agron and Spartacus talking to Lugo just outside Spartacus’s tent from where the four leaders had just emerged.

“I do,” Nasir confirms, and Naevia beams at him. “Rabanus thought it would be a good fit for me and has agreed to train me.”

“That is good,” Crixus replies, taking the food Naevia offers him as Gannicus takes a swig of wine straight from the amphora. “Some of the greatest gladiators in our ludus fought as hoplomachus. They are not easily bested.”

Gannicus laughs. “You say that, but did you not defeat Auctus in your very first match in the arena?”

“Rabanus mentioned an Auctus. And Barca,” Nasir adds, though the tragic story of Barca and his lover Pietros is one he has heard many times. Auctus is a name he has only ever heard in passing before. “He said that with proper training I would be as agile as Auctus himself.”

“Bold boast,” Gannicus says. “I swear Auctus could fly like the birds he kept as pets.”

“If he could sprout wings, how did you best him?”

“A drunken fool gave me the advice to rid him of his spear, and he would be left with only one weapon.”

“It saved your life, did it not?” Gannicus asks.

“Advice relevant only when fighting in the arena where weapons are limited. Now we do best learning how to use whatever we may come upon in the field of battle.”

“Agron and Spartacus have trained me well in the ways of the sword,” Nasir says just as the two men move to join their circle around the fire. Agron moves around it to stand behind Nasir, though, hands on his shoulders.

“I will take meal in our tent. There is a thing I would discuss.” 

They bid their friends goodnight and, as they leave, Gannicus calls after them, “Nasir, now you can teach your man how to use his spear.”

*

Nasir stops struggling and Castus lets him up. Castus catches his arm when he tries to walk away, back to the camp, but Nasir grabs his wrist and removes it. “Do not think this changes anything.”

He wants to talk to Naevia. He wants to erase the past months where political differences have kept them parted and just talk. About Crixus. About Agron. About the lives they should have had. About the children Naevia should have had, and the ones she did almost have, but that were lost to too many hits and falls in battle before she could even be sure. Most of all Nasir wants to talk to his friend, his sister. 

He does not go looking for her, though. He does not search for Spartacus or Gannicus either, though he would much like to seek their company and words as well. He knows they are plotting, planning, scheming; things that have never caught Nasir’s interest. Naevia may very well be with them; Lugo most certainly is, as well as Saxa. Both of them have stepped up as leaders of the war in Crixus and Agron’s absence. 

Nasir is a leader too, but he prefers to do what he does best, and stay where he can do the most good; with the people.

“Nasir!” a voice calls, and he turns to meet Crispus, a bright-eyed young man with curly hair who has made the transition from runaway house slave to warrior so fast it rivals Nasir’s own journey. “Is it true? That Crixus’s army has fallen?”

“It appears so,” Nasir says, watching as Crispus’s bright eyes darken with grief and wondering how many friends, brothers and lovers he now has lost.

“Agron?” he asks, and Nasir shakes his head. “You should come train with us, so that we can honor his memory with more Roman blood.”

Nasir smiles. “Gratitude,” he says, and takes the spear Crispus passes to him and follows the man to the open area they use for training. “Perhaps this time you shall stay on your feet long enough to make proper match.” Someone throws Crispus another spear and he jumps easily as Nasir makes a sweep for his knees.

“A student is but a reflection of his teacher,” Crispus retorts, and Nasir laughs, chest swelling with pride.

*

“Do you think Rome will fall?” Nasir asks, looking at the wall in the room they have claimed their own in Sinuessa. He feels the weight of Agron’s warm hands on his shoulders, moving down his arms. “Crassus commands ten thousand men. He could prove an obstacle too great even for the Bringer of Rain to take down.”

“We just claimed a city,” Agron murmurs in his ear. “Now is a strange time for doubt.” He tugs Nasir’s hair loose and brushes it aside, lips finding welcoming skin of Nasir’s neck. “The Gods favor us, not the Romans. Turn from thoughts of worry and enjoy the present.”

Nasir turns his head, meeting Agron’s mouth with his own, but he is not yet ready to fully embrace the present and forget the future. “What will we do when Rome falls then? Where shall we go?”

Agron laughs and Nasir turns, running his hands over Agron’s bare chest, kissing his scar. “Wherever you desire,” Agron says, and Nasir grins, burying his face against Agron’s chest.

“Your home then.” It is still the one thing they do not talk about. Agron’s reluctance to return to the lands he takes such pride in coming from. _Do you not want to see your family again? To see if they yet live? To see your village. The pond where you and your brother used to swim in the summer? The hills where you herded goats and sheep?_

“Perhaps,” Agron says. He tilts Nasir’s head up and kisses him once more. _I cannot return without my brother. I swore to protect him. I swore to get him home safe._

With Agron biting his lip, Nasir wraps his arms around Agron’s neck and decides he has heard enough of the future. “I would have you take me to bed now.” Agron needs not telling twice, and lifts Nasir up off the ground, and Nasir wraps his legs around Agron’s waist, hoisting himself up and running his hands through Agron’s hair as he mouths at Nasir’s chest.

They fall into bed, making love just as sweet as ever. Nasir lies awake a long time afterwards, head propped up on Agron’s chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. He thinks Agron asleep, but is proven wrong.

_“Wherever you go, you shall also find me there.”_

*

The next day Spartacus and a clutch of warriors go to set a trap for Crassus, leaving Nasir in charge. It is not really that different from when Spartacus and Gannicus are there, because they don’t have much to do with Nasir’s responsibilities anyway, but it is a nice feeling. It reminds him of being body slave, only with freedom, which makes it a completely different experience.

He oversees the food supplies with Kore and Sibyl’s assistance, and Laeta hovering over their shoulders, wanting to help, but still without the experience of running a big household as a slave. She is learning, though, and growing more confident and comfortable with each passing day. 

He spends the next few hours observing the training of the rebels who have just taken to weapons, and those who are simply taking longer to get the hang of it. Many still believe house slaves can never be warriors, and that they cannot learn to fight like gladiators, but they usually quiet down when they learn both Nasir and Naevia once bore title of body slave and nothing more.

Nasir is watching Crispus spar with a young girl when Castus joins him. “You do not train today?”

“It is just as important to stand aside and take note of minor errors that could cost someone their life in battle if not corrected,” he tells Castus. “Crispus! You expose flank when you thrust. Was that sword steel and not wood, you would be for the afterlife.”

“The boy fights well,” Castus comments, a familiar tone in his voice, one Nasir is used to have directed at himself. He raises an eyebrow at Castus who simply raises one back.

“With spear, yes,” Nasir replies. “With sword and shield he makes too many simple mistakes.”

“Maybe he needs a firmer hand guiding him,” Castus suggests.

“You think you would do a better job teaching him how to fight than those trained as gladiators would?”

“It can’t do any harm, can it?” Castus says and gets up. Nasir isn’t so sure about that, but he’s willing to give Castus a shot.

Rabanus, who has been in charge of training since they lost Donar, takes up sparring with the girl. She shows great promise, and Nasir makes note to learn her name before the next battle.

*

“Nasir?” Nasir’s head jerks up. It’s the first time he has heard anyone else say his name in a really long time. Less than an hour ago, no one had said it at all since that day he was torn from his brother’s arms.

Agron stands in the doorway, looking surprisingly small for such a large man. Nasir shifts to the side, making room for Agron to sit on the cot in the room that has been Nasir’s home for years, since he became body slave to the Dominus.

“This is your room?” Agron asks, sitting down.

“This is where I slept most nights, yes.” Nasir picks at the threadbare sheet covering the cot. 

“We move for another villa tomorrow night to search for Naevia.” Nasir just nods. “It doesn’t feel right taking you away from your home.” Nasir laughs.

“This is not my home. This is Tiberius’s home. I am not him anymore.”

“Do you wish to return to Syria?” Nasir notices how their hands rest dangerously close together in the space between them. He shifts a little, and the back of his hand brushes against Agron’s.

“I do not remember much of it. I see no reason to go back.” Agron presses his hand back against Nasir’s, and Nasir contains a smile.

“Where would you go, now that you’re free to go as you please?”

Nasir hesitates. Rome is the only home he has ever known, its customs are what he is used to. Then he knows. “Where my heart told me to.”

*

Spartacus and Gannicus return not with news of Crassus’s death, but with a clutch of prisoners including his son. When he announces the games, Nasir is pleased. He is happy to kill Roman soldiers for the entertainment of the rebels. He is happy for Naevia for getting to take the life of the snot-nosed kid, _Tiberius_ , in turn for Crixus’s life. He is happy to honor the memory of Agron in the way that would make him the most proud.

A part of him is worried, not for himself but for the others. Gannicus dances dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, but doesn’t fall. Seeing everyone fight makes him proud, not because he has trained any of them, but because he is one of them. He has gone from being weak to being strong. Agron did that for him, Spartacus did that for him, Crixus did that for him. Nasir did it for himself.

_“Would that you stood a thousand men, your deaths by my hand worthy of Agron’s memory!”_

Nasir has never taken pleasure in killing. In battle he fights to stay alive, he fights to keep the ones he loves alive. He fights for what is just, for freedom, and to avenge those that have been taken from him. Now he fights for Agron, to honor him, to honor the life they should have had together.

He loves it. The fear in the soldier’s eyes only serves to spur him on, the cheer of the crowd encouraging him to do everything, to take his fighting up notch after notch, because it is what Agron deserves. It is what would make Agron proud.

Naevia says as much, and he watches as she takes the sands to do the same for Crixus.

It reminds him of Vesuvius, not even a year ago, when she stood against Ashur. Broken and crying, but she had done it, she had taken his head. She had healed, and now she stands the strongest fighter of them all. Her choice to trade the son of Crassus for the five hundred captured rebels says so. Nasir is not sure he could have done the same had Tiberius’s life been his to take.

*

“Castus wishes to fight,” Nasir says, rubbing his hands together over the fire. The mountain is the kind of cold that makes him feel like he will never be warm again, and he longs to leave it and seek warmer climates. 

“And I wish to get off this fucking ridge but I don’t see that happening anytime soon unless the Gods decide to strike all the Romans down for good.” Nasir follows Agron as he moves through the camp, searching for anyone who still has not found proper shelter for the storm.

“He saved my life in Sinuessa.”

“He stands a Cilician!”

“Heracleo left him behind. He played no part in betraying us.” They are words Nasir knows Agron has heard time and time again, yet refuses to accept. “One more fighting man can be what tips the scales in our favor.”

Agron doesn’t say anything, but when he turns around the next tent, Nasir knows he is moving in the direction of where Castus is.

*

Nasir could not find it in himself to be angry at Kore for taking Tiberius’s life. He has not been able to get to know her well, but the way she carried herself when Tiberius was in the camp told a story of its own. Losing her back to Crassus is unfair, but seeing the rebels returned to them warms the heart. Kore made her sacrifice, as everyone has to.

He finds Naevia in the sea of returning faces, but he is unable to really make anything out. They are his friends, his brothers and sisters, but they are not Agron. “Would that those we hold to heart stood among them.”

“Nasir,” Castus says, appearing behind them, and Nasir turns to find him looking forward, into the crowd. When he follows his gaze, he finds… Agron, and it feels like he’s breathing for the first time in days. It feels as if his heart is beating once more like it has not since they parted ways.

He moves without thinking. He does not take his eyes off of Agron, off of his bruised, beaten face, off of his limp arm and bloodied hand slung around Spartacus’s shoulders. If he does, he might not find him again. If he does, it might turn out to have been only an illusion. 

He is almost afraid to touch him. His hand hovers over Agron’s face for a moment, but as Spartacus lays Agron’s arm over Nasir’s shoulder, allowing him to carry Agron, his fingers touch down, and Agron lifts heavy lids off his eyes.

“The Gods return you to my arms.” He cradles Agron’s head, feeling the weight of his body and everything he has been through, and carefully runs his thumb over his cheek where it doesn’t look too bruised.

“I was fool to ever leave them.” Nasir feels tears stinging his eyes, but he blinks them away. There will be time for that later. He carries Agron’s weight over his shoulder, uses his arm to support him, and guides him, not home, but to a place they can be alone.

*

The pain in his side is unbearable. The Roman sword had caused enough pain and damage. The red-hot sword used to seal the wound had made him want to scream loud enough for it to be heard at Vesuvius. Where Agron is. Now he’s floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, just barely registering when Liscus rejoins them. The next time he comes to for a second, Liscus is dead.

The next thing he knows he is on the ground, propped up against a tree. Naevia is pressed up against him, holding him tight, and he wants to hold her back, but his arms are too heavy. His head is too heavy to lift, and it is making it hard to breathe.

He hears people coming. A lot of people. He hears Naevia’s terrified breathing, and Spartacus and Mira’s quick breathing, though he might just be imagining that. Then Naevia relaxes. She is still clutching his arm so tight it might fall off, but she’s not as scared anymore.

He feels the ground vibrate as someone comes close, stopping just before him, and then a warm touch, calloused fingers on his chin, tilting his head up. Agron’s face is the best thing he has ever seen, and he tries to smile, but is unsure of how it comes out. Then he is out again.

*

“For Duro.”

Nasir is so surprised he thinks someone else might have said it. When he turns and looks at Agron’s face he knows where it came from, though, and he knows what it means. Agron wants to go home. It is the first time Agron has uttered the name since Duro’s passing. It is not a coincidence. 

They have not had time to speak much yet. Agron had been too tired to say much as Nasir cleaned his wounds and changed the dressings on his ruined hands. Nasir cannot imagine what it must have been like. Caught in pain, waiting to die, left with only your own thoughts to make time pass.

Nasir listens as Crixus name is chanted by nearly everyone around him. He watches them, their faces, their souls ignited by a new cause. Live free or die fighting. Castus’s face. Laeta’s face. Gannicus and Sibyl.

Agron remains quiet and Nasir knows it is not for lack of energy. Nasir remains quiet because he has made his decision. He wants to live, and he wants Agron to live. He only fears it may be too late.

*

“Return to my arms, with breath still in your breast,” Nasir whispers, allowing himself to just cling to Agron for a moment, savoring his warmth, his scent and the feeling of Agron’s arms around him. He presses a searing kiss to Nasir’s lips, and then another, and Nasir has to collect himself and pull back for both their sake. Agron needs to stand by Spartacus, Crixus and Gannicus, and Nasir has to take to the ropes with the rest of their little army.

“I shall,” Agron replies. “And one day may the Gods never see me from them again.”


End file.
